


Inhale

by Strigoi17



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Sadstuck, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:35:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strigoi17/pseuds/Strigoi17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her window gave way quick beneath your fingers; the glass whispers effortlessly from its frame into your hands, and you set it on the platform at your feet. Springing through the window frame, you kick your feet through first. Letting your combat boots hang in dead space, you stop, canvas the room.</p><p>She’s curled tight as a pretzel on her makeshift couch of pillows and old clothes; she has one of your spare shirts wrapped around her knees for warmth. Troll Pretty Woman’s title screen plays neglected on the TV a few feet away, and you can guess that she’s been asleep for a while.</p><p>You don’t make a sound when you drop into her room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inhale

Her window gave way quick beneath your fingers; the glass whispers effortlessly from its frame into your hands, and you set it on the platform at your feet. Springing through the window frame, you kick your feet through first. Letting your combat boots hang in dead space, you stop, canvas the room.

She’s curled tight as a pretzel on her makeshift couch of pillows and old clothes; she has one of your spare shirts wrapped around her knees for warmth. Troll Pretty Woman’s title screen plays neglected on the TV a few feet away, and you can guess that she’s been asleep for a while.

You don’t make a sound when you drop into her room. 

 

His body is indestructible; bones, real and fake, curl up around you like a cage, wash you with warmth and soft humming. The tips of bare fingers skate down the curve of your spine, chase shivers down your arms and catch them around your wrists.

When he speaks, his voice bleeds through your shirt, vibrates against your skin. “You’re beautiful.”

The fingers ringed around your wrist twine between your own. “I could just eat you the motherfuck up, Mew.”

You kiss him, sing a purr through his lips. All wet heat and ardent, impulsive movements, his teeth snag on your lower lip. A hand falls, traces the cadences of your torso and drops between your legs. Through your underwear, a soft fingertip presses into your nook, kneads you slowly. When you pull away to moan his name, he whispers against your lips, kisses you with each enunciation.

“Let me just devour you, my dear.”

“Eat me up.” You hum, kiss his nose. Strong, long-fingered hands curl against your hips, and you sit straight; he peals your t-shirt over your head and casts it aside, across the room and out of sight.

Your hive is silent; all you can hear is Kurloz’s breathing and the murmurs he sews into your neck. Beneath you, his legs are crossed and the nest made by them sinks you low, lets him tower over you. Nimble fingers unbutton your shirt meticulously, carefully open your collar bones and your rib cage. This distracts you so effectively that you don’t notice he’s biting at your neck until he wrestles the subconscious hiss right out of you.

“Ooh!” You smile, wriggle animatedly. “Ooh, yeah!”

“Like that?” He gives an honest smile, kisses the green blotch against your neck.

“JUUUUUUUUST like that!” He slips your sleeves down your arms and you shake yourself free, raise your hands up to catch in his hair.

“I’d kill if I couldn’t have you.” His lips fall, kiss the tops of your breasts where they spill out of your bra. Both of his hands have settled on your thighs, and his thumbs rub small circles along the soft curves of your legs. Impatient, you thrash and give a high whine.

“Then have me!” In further frustration, one of your hands tugs a handful of twining black hair.  
Kurloz lets out a yelp that trails into a quiet laugh. “I just want to touch every inch of you.” He nuzzles up into your neck. “I just can’t get enough of you…”

“Dammit, then have more of me!” You outright buck up into his hips, and he raises an eyebrow at you.

“Mew, are you alri—”

“NO!” You shake your head, bring your hand down the back of his neck and leave thin purple lines trailing after your fingernails. “No, goddammit! Stop frickin’ teasing meeee!”

Glaring outright, you lean forward and bonk your head onto his. Irritated green eyes drill into his, and when you try to speak it’s softer than intended. “If you’re going to make me scream,” Your skin is burning, sizzling with eager energy, and your muscles are already twitching. “Do it already.”

Again, he pushes you back; reigns over you, bends your body to his will. You’re leaned back on your hands, both of your ankles locked behind his back, and he’s buried in your neck. “I’m going to do it slow,” He declared, giving a sharp nip to your neck. “So slow you’ll be begging me for motherfucking mercy.”

Both of the hands in his hair fist, claw at his scalp. “Frick you, mister Makara.” You pout.

When he finally reaches down to slide your skirt over your knees, a grateful keen spills into the air. Shaking, you raise one hand as he slips off your skirt, pull up the ends of his shirt and yank it over his head. Obviously stunned by the abrupt movement, he stops, works both of your limbs free. You toss the turtle neck on top of your own shirt, dance your fingertips across his chest.  
You grunt when you scratch a thin line along your waistband, beg quietly for him to just, oh, please, please take them off and fuck you inside out.

“You’re gonna feel me in your bones, princess.” He states, kissing the arch of your jaw line before sitting straight himself. Both of his hands are warm against your thighs when he lowers them, breaks away and stands to step out of his shorts and pants.  
His bulge has already fully slipped out of him. Honestly, you’re surprised it didn’t rip his underwear; for a moment you let yourself imagine that possibility, dwell on it – play the sound of ripping fabric in your head, imagine the muscle as it coils and writhes against itself, slick and smooth.

Suddenly hell bent and overly interested in the real thing, you open your eyes and crane your neck. Indigo oozes across his thighs like veined marble, staining grey purple and driving your teeth into your lip.

A thousand miles away, you can hear your TV still on; Pretty Woman’s soundtrack plays on loop. Beneath you, your mound of clothes and pillows has shifted: you and Kurloz have made a basin in them, an oval slightly deeper than the mess around you.  
You want him. You want him so irresistibly bad, and it coagulates in your stomach as a burning, anxious pain. Pouncing on the chance, you hook your thumbs in your panties and yank them off. Thirsty; you’re thirsty. Your throat is dry and itching with need – you find yourself already shivering from the cold he left behind. You want his fingers back, his lips back, the sweetness of his taste peppered back on your tongue.

Turning, he catches you with your hand in your pants. “Ah-ah-ah.”

Climbing back on top of you, he slaps at your wrists. “Stop. My job.”

“You were taking too long!” You instead frown, but let him crawl between your legs again. “WAY too long!”

“Then let me fix that, sweetheart.” Supporting himself with both of his hands parallel to your torso, he kisses you – eager, you raise yourself up to return it, but he’s pulled away.

“Patience.” He shimmies lower, kisses a straight line down your torso. Each kiss leaves a dollop of heat, speckled down your stomach in a shaky line. At the mercy of his lips, your waist band is hot and hypersensitive; when he teases his tongue down the V of your muscles, you cry out his name.

“Yes?” He chimes, resting his chin on your thigh.

“Please.” It surfaces as a pant. “Kurloz, PLEASE…”

“Please…” He kisses the twitching muscle in your thigh, busies his hand by stenciling circles on the curve of your hip. “Please WHAT?”

“Please fuck me.” You whimper, rolling your hips up for him.

“You really want it?” He kisses you through your underwear.

“Oh yes, so bad!” You nod fervidly. “I’ll do anything, please, anything at all…”

Rising, he steadies both of his hands on your hips. Quick and smooth, he slides them down your thighs; they’re heavy when they hit the floor. “You’re aaaaall motherfucking soaked for me, my lovely.”

You whimper, nod your head; your bulge is stretching up for him, thoughtless and impulsive. Deep olive and sweating genetic material, it curls up, frantic for the touch of another. Indigo and huge, his own writhes before yours. It ducks out of the way, flicks against your entrance as it avoids your distressed muscle. Yelping, you raise your arms for him; he instantaneously nestles into them.

The warmth of his lips drops over yours, and he slips into you without a sound.

The relief is paramount. It vibrates through you, singes your veins and makes you spill moans like milk. Desperate for friction, you wrap yourself around his base and relish in the gasp that falls into your ear.

“MotherFUCK.”

He drills into you and cracks you open. Pleasure speaks from deep in your stomach, rocks up you against him. Your bones clash and dance, your skin nets together. Above you, he whispers:

 

“God, Mew, you feel so damn good… you’re my little princess, aren’t you? So TIGHT, ah…”  
Words like these make you shiver whenever he voices them; you bite into his neck, cry his name into his skin.  
He pulls away, and you almost cry in frustration. “Just a quick second, sweetheart.”

Nodding, you do all you can: listen to the throbbing in your ears and lay still. Unceremoniously, he returns with your pail, and you sigh. Subconsciously, you spread your legs further.

Two of his fingers slide your eyes shut gently. “Just feel it.” He murmurs. “The miracles, love, feel them, don’t see them.”  
You trust Kurloz, and you trust him not to hurt you; you give yourself up to him. Closing your eyes, you wash your world into black. He breathes thunderstorms across your body, crackling with electricity and so foggy you can’t see.  
Slicking his bulge across yours, he wraps your tips together like warring tongues.  
“Come for me.”

“Yes…” You shiver and jolt on command. “A-Ah!! Kurloz, yes!”

It splatters into the bucket he’s propped below you like rain on a chilled tin roof. After the teasing build-up, you’re left gasping: it isn’t over, it can’t be.

“You’re perfect,” He tells you as he falls on his back and settles you into the fold of his arm.

“So are you.” You close your eyes, sigh into the warmth of his body.

The roof wilts in on you when you start tracing polygons on his chest.

Everything fragments, gets thrown spiraling; the ragged corners of your memories cut you like glass, and the screaming in your ears is like acid. Deep and caterwauling, it makes your head spin and ache, impossibly loud and painful and absolutely, one hundred percent terrifying.

You don’t realize you’ve gone cold until the tears pour from your eardrums. They’re hot and sticky when you touch them: your hand slips against your cheek. Olive smears between your fingers and against your lips, and you grasp that the screaming has stopped.

Suddenly, you’re screaming yourself; screaming and inhaling spoor. It slips down your throat and into your lungs; your chest shudders and heaves to try and rid you of it. For a moment, a hand graces your back, guides you forward and dislodges the mucusy slime.

“Kurloz!” Your lips move, you know what you’re saying, but you can’t hear yourself. “Kurloz, sweetie, I had the worst dream—”  
You reach behind you, flailing out for him. The hand on your back is gone, and behind you, there’s only the membrane of your coon. Weight tumbles down in your stomach, makes you sink further down. You inhale clean air. Reality sets in.

“…Kurloz?”

He’s gone.


End file.
